


together we'll see both sunlight and storms

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Vacation, i'm sending them off to Italy because it's what they deserve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25978576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: Too much time had been wasted, and a desire to move forward was burning between them, but they found progress was hard to make when they were still following their routines and habits in the same place and the same city they had long since come to call home. Their respective homes were far too easy to hide in. They take a vacation.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	together we'll see both sunlight and storms

**Author's Note:**

> this was born from discussion in the Soft Omens discord server about vacation fics and then spiraled into this. i am not an expert on Italy, and most of this comes from my own trip there, so apologies if i got anything wrong. 
> 
> title comes from 'Sunlight and Storms' from the musical Starry

It's been far too long since either Crowley or Aziraphale have truly gotten to relax. The years leading up to the thwarted apocalypse had been tense and busy, and before that, it had been largely business between them. Too much to do for their respective sides, too much of heaven and hell breathing down their necks, too much keeping them apart when all either of them wanted was to be together. But when that final day came, nothing ended and the next morning dawned and the world kept turning, no boiling seas or burning skies, and Aziraphale and Crowley had managed to free themselves at last. The sudden liberation was exhilarating; as terrifying as it was exciting, a vast expanse stretching before them with so much possibility. Too much time had been wasted, and a desire to move forward was burning between them, but they found progress was hard to make when they were still following their routines and habits in the same place and the same city they had long since come to call home. Their respective homes were far too easy to hide in. They take a vacation.

It's a new start, something just for them without the force of being an angel or a demon to barricade them in, without 'hereditary enemies' to sit heavy between them. There are habits to break, of course there are — six thousand years are bound to leave their mark, and it'll take a while before Crowley stops watching over his shoulder, before Aziraphale stops glancing upwards warily. But they can see each other at their leisure for no other reason than each others' company. They can sit a little too close and touch a little too much and stare a little too long. They can pack up out of nowhere and book a flight to Italy and only get a little flustered when the flight attendant assumes they're married.

They do it all the human way because that's the side they chose, and it's something neither of them has really done before. It's new. It's different. They have an end seat and a window seat, no middle seat to contend with thankfully, and Crowley lets Aziraphale take the window, a long time habit of putting himself between Aziraphale and any potential danger, but also so he can see the angel's face. Aziraphale peers out the little oval opening and watches the way the earth drops away, everything getting smaller; buildings and roads and conflicts and anxieties. His face steadily relaxes, the filtered sunshine smoothing out the worry lines. Aziraphale looks at the world he loves, and Crowley, eyes trained on Aziraphale, does too. The sky opens up, they breathe easier.

They exit the airport to warm weather and bright blue skies, Italy welcoming them like they’re simply another part of the crowd of bustling humans. They take the train out to the west coast, leisurely and far slower than either of them are used to, but this is not a time for miracles and efficiency. There is no work to be done here, no subterfuge and secrets; Aziraphale and Crowley travel openly together, just another couple on vacation, and sit facing each other but with ankles crossed over the other’s under the little table. The landscape rushes by, green and beautiful and alive. The world hasn't ended and they're here. Crowley slumps further in his seat, tangles their legs even more, and Aziraphale gives him a smile, relishing that he doesn’t have to hide it. Crowley flushes.

The train takes them right to the village they’re staying in, a popular and pretty place in an area called Cinque Terre. The landscape is steep, hills rising back from the coast, terraces built into the inclines, a colorful array of rooftops. They make their way down into the town, walk among the people and find the little place they rented. They’re staying in a quaint little house, just one of many that look similar, but it's utterly homey. French-style doors and wide tile flooring, a beautiful view of the sea out the windows. It sits about halfway up among the buildings, all yellows and reds and rich warm colors, cozy and comfortable. There's nothing fancy about it, no frills or extra amenities, but it's quiet and it's soft and it's real. 

It takes a few days of simply existing in a space where there is nothing they need to do, a few days of basking in the lack of obligations and the company, before it has sunk in for both of them that they really are on vacation together. The northwest coast of Italy is a beautiful and idyllic place; the water stretches out endlessly, vibrant and glittering. The light bounces off of the water at sunrise, at midday, at sunset, paints the whole village in rich rainbow hues. In the first week, Aziraphale spends his time puttering about the rented home, testing every piece of furniture for good places to settle, while Crowley prowls around the outer edges of the rooms, following. At first, Crowley hangs back. Whenever Aziraphale finds a spot, kicks his feet up with the intent to stay there a while, Crowley only sinks down somewhere nearby, still unsure of his welcome after so many years of ‘ _ we can’t, not now, we’re on opposite sides, no no no _ ’. It’s awkward and a little tense, but the point of getting out of London was to go somewhere they could figure it out. Their old song and dance are outdated now, no longer enough.

The second week is progress. Crowley has been slipping out in the mornings, finding breakfast for them both, fresh baked goods and fine Italian coffee, but the second week they start trying to cook. Neither of them are much for cooking though they can manage a few dishes, if the occasion calls for it. Not when Aziraphale prefers going out and Crowley doesn’t eat much. But this is something else new, something neither has done before, but so very human. They move around each other in the kitchen, at first bumping elbows and hips, knocking things over, burning pots, and starting again. But they laugh and it's good and right and warm. In the evenings, Aziraphale settles with a book, like he has been, but now he shoots Crowley pointed looks until he gets the hint and sidles closer. Aziraphale bridges the gap, reaches between them, tugs him close.

They have this place for a month, before they’ll move on further south, but they are weeks well spent, as tension and stress unspool more and more with each day they spend here. The third week in, they venture out more, together. Aziraphale likes talking to people, and Crowley likes seeing him so radiant. There is excellent food to be found, and the smell of fresh fish, of basil and garlic and salt, wafts through the air and makes Aziraphale beam. Crowley is happy to be pulled along, stopping at shops and stalls and offering his opinion when asked. Aziraphale asks over almost everything, eager to know, eager to care and pour his attention on Crowley, to be allowed such a thing, too used to denying and rejecting and pushing away. The wine here is fantastic, locally made, and there’s mead and liqueurs as well, bright flavors that erupt in the mouth, rich and delightful. This region likes its lemon, in the food and the drink, and Crowley knocks back the chilled and creamy  _ limoncino _ with the sort of unrestrained enjoyment he hasn’t had since the very early days of humanity. Aziraphale is enamored with the pasta, the seafood dishes, the olives and the breads and the desserts. He happily indulges whenever it strikes his fancy, and he always _ always _ offers to share. Aziraphale will hold out whatever delicacy he has acquired, eyes bright and open, cheeks flushed and so incredibly beautiful standing in the streets of this village. And here and now, Crowley lets himself learn to accept the offers, not just for Aziraphale, but for himself. They deserve this, he knows, something soft and sweet and good; gelato melting on his tongue as Aziraphale shares his spoon. 

In the latter half of the third week, when Aziraphale goes to sit down and read, he doesn’t say a word, merely makes room for Crowley directly beside him. Crowley is hesitant, but he slinks forward and lets their knees touch when he sits as well. Aziraphale shifts closer without looking up, a silent apology in his gentle touch, a quiet reassurance that Crowley can have this now, that Aziraphale will give it. It will take time, but they have time now as well. The air here is clear, salty and sharp; inhale, exhale. Crowley relaxes his shoulders, relaxes his spine one notch at a time, sinks into Aziraphale and watches the sea out the window.

The fourth week begins with rain, heavy but peaceful, and Aziraphale leaves the windows of the kitchen open. The sound of water falling in a steady rush reminds Crowley of standing on a wall, watching humanity take its first steps, being shown kindness where he never would have expected it. Even now, Aziraphale pulls him to the counter, ingredients and bowls strewn over the surface, beaming like a lighthouse through the storm. Crowley finds himself pulling at rosemary stalks, flour on his hands and on Aziraphale’s shirt. There’s olive oil splashed on Aziraphale’s cheek, and it keeps catching the light, drawing Crowley's eyes every time. Over the course of a few weeks, they have managed more and more culinary success together, less fumbling and burning and more actual dinners and baked goods between them. But this is the first time they have made bread. The focaccia sits cooling on the stove, and they both sit at the little wooden table pushed against the wall. One leg wobbles a bit, there's ceramic salt and pepper shakers painted with delicate wildflowers in the center, and the paint is chipped and peeling in places, but Crowley has never felt a comfort like this before. The table is small, so he sits with his chair turned out, letting him lounge in his usual sprawl. Aziraphale smiles behind the rim of his mug and asks him what other food he wants to try making.

Crowley thinks he will carry the memory of this kitchen table with him for the rest of his life. The way the light hits it in the morning, the signs of wear and age and life, the soft sort of domesticity of him and Aziraphale sharing this space. Aziraphale stands to grab the bread they made together, mixed by Crowley and kneaded by Aziraphale, and brings it back to the table. There is oil and vinegar, crumbs scattering over wood, Aziraphale’s rolled-up sleeves and Crowley's eyes uncovered. There is something terribly intimate, here, as Aziraphale tears a piece in two and hands one to Crowley, like they’ve just reached the end of a new first chapter. The rain stops. The bread is perfect. 

The fourth week ends with Aziraphale and Crowley on the couch together, as has become the usual, Crowley tucked into Aziraphale's side. The nights here are always quiet, dark and enveloping and good for hiding away. They're finally feeling safe. Like every night, Crowley shifts and stretches and picks himself up to go slink off to the bedroom. There is only one bedroom here, because Aziraphale doesn't sleep, even now, and there wasn't much point in having more than one. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep; he's never seen it as something he needs, so he's never bothered to try. But as Crowley stands, he feels a pull on his shirt, and he glances down to find Aziraphale gripping tentatively at the hem. There's something nervous in Aziraphale's face, a sudden tension that's been absent these past few weeks, and Crowley frowns at seeing it. He hadn't realized exactly how much good this trip had been doing for them until the worry lines that now crease Aziraphale's face remind him of before. Aziraphale slowly rises to his feet as well, and there's a question he can't vocalize in the way he stands there, looking for permission, for guidance. 

Aziraphale always asks, even knowing Crowley would certainly give in, but he actually seems unsure of the answer here, and Crowley can't let him possibly think he would say no to this. Crowley untangles Aziraphale's hand in his shirt and uses it to pull him to the bedroom, guides him through the routine of getting ready for bed. Aziraphale sinks into the mattress next to Crowley, bereft of his usual layers and looking so endearingly lost. Crowley eyes the stiff way he's laying, hands clasped and shoulders tense, and pokes him in the side, grinning when he jumps. Aziraphale shoots him an exasperated look, but he doesn't look made of stone anymore, so Crowley considers it a victory. There's shuffling and shifting, and Aziraphale huffs and Crowley grumbles, but they're both stifling grins, giddy with the newness of this experience, the closeness of the other. Another step forward. Eventually Aziraphale settles enough and actually drifts off first, Crowley forcing himself to stay awake, wanting to see the moment it happened. Aziraphale's face in sleep is soft and unguarded, and Crowley stares at him, this angel sharing his bed and utterly trusting him. He burns the image into the back of his eyelids, lets the feeling of content bubbling up in his chest pull him to sleep as well.

The last week they stay in the village, they walk the streets as they have been, but now Aziraphale starts taking Crowley’s arm where he’d been hesitant before. He hooks his hand at Crowley's elbow, tugs him lightly where he wants to go, leans in close and keeps them connected, a grounding touch. Crowley revels in the touch, in a gesture so small, but so meaningful, because it tells everyone who sees them of their closeness, of their intimacy and happiness. This is happiness, with Aziraphale bubbly and bright, chatting animatedly with a vendor about grapes. This is happiness, when another man, arm linked to his own chatty partner, shoots him a fondly commiserating look. This is happiness: when Aziraphale is laughing and Crowley feels lighter than air and no one is coming to take this away. Crowley shifts his arm, slides it back under Aziraphale’s hand until his own hand is there, slotting into the angel’s palm. Their fingers lace together, easy and comfortable and thrilling all the same, and it feels like they’ve been doing this forever. 

The day slips from morning to afternoon to evening with a lazy kind of air to it, slow and relaxed. They have dinner among the locals listening to stories and seeing the rich and full lives they sit among. This is the world they fought for, and it feels so good to be within it. After, they make their way down pathways of cobbled stone, following winding streets to the water. The sun is starting to set now, a brilliant band of fire in the sky, and Aziraphale pulls them to a walkway. The sign says ‘Via dell’Amore’ and Crowley tries not to react to it. The ocean stretches out beyond the village’s port, lit by a painter’s palette of colors, purples and pinks stretching into gold and orange above the waves. The last rays of light hit Aziraphale’s pale curls and light them up like a halo, make his eyes glitter like gems, and Crowley thinks he is more divine than anything in heaven.

They make their way onto the carved out path, a connecting walkway between their village and the next. Crowley reaches a hand back without looking, feigning casualness, but he inwardly cheers when Aziraphale takes it without hesitation, like it's already a long-ingrained habit. They walk together, the way miraculously empty, and the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Stars begin to dot the sky, the light fading in gold tones, and they are halfway between one village and the next. There is a sculpture here, overlooking the sea, two lovers carved out of one piece, surrounded by locks of all kinds. The locks have been left over time by couples, symbols of devotion, promises of love, tokens for good luck. 

Crowley gazes outwards, eyes unfocused as more stars start to appear, trying not to stare at Aziraphale too much, but thoughts racing. Aziraphale had led them to a walk named for lovers, but it's a popular spot for anyone who visits here. It could be nothing, just a coincidence, and Crowley is inclined to brush it off as such, to sweep any significance away where it couldn't come back to hurt them. But that was before. Before standing together, before being ready to die for each other, before a month of soft nights and bright days and a gentle steady forward progression. They could speak openly now and Aziraphale had never minded questions. Crowley could ask and Aziraphale would never let him fall.

But there's a quiet clicking sort of sound behind him, before Crowley can give voice to his unsureness. He turns, blinks, stares. Aziraphale has an open padlock in his hand. The angel clears his throat nervously, but his hands don't twist like they used to, something determined in his gaze. Aziraphale brandishes the lock, looks at Crowley's face and seems to find fortification. 

“We made our choice. Whatever happens now, we go together. Our own side, right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley chokes out, voice cracking. “Our own side.”

Aziraphale steps forward, reaches with the lock, and grabs Crowley's hand, presses the metal between their palms. They secure it in place together, among the rest already there, like they are any old human couple — like they have any old human life which they can share. The sun has almost entirely vanished, bathing the land in darkness but for the faint light of stars. There's just enough light left to highlight Aziraphale’s edges, and Crowley is suddenly struck with the weight of what they’ve built in this village off the coast of Italy. Something new and beautiful and still growing, and he’s suddenly seized with need. Aziraphale had been staring at the lock they had placed, but he turns when Crowley nudges him, makes absolutely no move to stop what Crowley makes sure he can see coming.

The kiss, at first, is a little clumsy, noses bumping as they find their way. But they sink into it easily enough, find how they slot together and everything falls into place. There are lifetimes of history and conflict, death and misery, joy and success that make up the foundation of whatever had been growing between them since they first met. Seeds planted in a garden finally blooming in full. Crowley isn’t sure who deepens the kiss first, which one of them draws them tighter together, but it doesn't matter, because he has his hands on Aziraphale's face, his lips on Aziraphale's lips. All of their lives they have spent fighting to have what they've been carefully building the last month. They've been building a relationship, they've been building a home. Crowley thinks of baking bread, holding hands, Aziraphale drifting off beside him. Aziraphale kisses him with the weight of six thousand years of opposite sides behind them and the weightless joy of countless years together ahead. The night wraps dark and quiet around them, Aziraphale makes no attempt to pull away and Crowley wants to stand there forever and bask in this new sensation. He cannot sense love like Aziraphale can, but he knows it is here.


End file.
